


The Scars

by Rosie_Sherlock_Watson



Series: The Evolution of Sherlock & John [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:17:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Sherlock_Watson/pseuds/Rosie_Sherlock_Watson
Summary: John sees Sherlock's scars for the first time.





	The Scars

**Author's Note:**

> My second work. I loved all the support I got from the first one, I had to do another. This one is a bit longer. Hope you like it!!

“Bloody idiot.” John grumbled under his breath. He had one arm around Sherlock’s waist, supporting him, and the other hand trying to unlock the door to 221B. The git just had to chase after that bloody thief in middle of bloody traffic.

“He was getting away, John. Would you rather he escape justice or go to jail?” His voice was slightly slurred from the pain killers John forced the EMTs to give him. Because of his drug use he had a ridiculous tolerance and they had to give him enough that would probably knock out a horse. It wasn’t something he liked thinking about.

“I’d have rather you not get hit by a cab!”

“Well he would have gotten away if I hadn’t been hit by a cab. I’m concerned about your priorities.”

He said nothing in return. He didn’t like the fact that Sherlock’s joke had much more truth in it then he knew. John believed in justice just as much as any good man or Yarder but he didn’t give a rat’s ass if it meant Sherlock getting hurt. Thankfully, he finally got the door open and was quickly distracted by Mrs. Hudson’s immediate chattering.

“Oh Sherlock! What have you done now? What’s happened?”

“I’m fine Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock barely hid the tone of annoyance in his voice. John and Sherlock make their way toward the steps. Neither of them truly wanted to deal with Mrs.Hudson’s concern, as touching as it was.

“He most certainly is not fine. He’s got himself hit by a car.” He ignored Sherlock’s glare. Partly because he knew he probably should have waited to tell her, and partly because it’s hard not to notice those blue-green eyes piercing your skull and, with Sherlock so close to his face, he really didn’t that traitorous blush creeping into his cheeks now.

“I got myself an international art thief….and hit by a car.”

“Shouldn’t you be going to hospital then.”

“Can’t. They can’t let John in the ambulance and most of the EMTs refuse to ride with me without John present. A ridiculously simple solution that no one is willing to do.”

“That’s because they value their jobs.”

“More than they value the patient’s care?”

“They know I’m a doctor. All I do is criticise their work anyway.”

Neither one of us said anything. Just looked at each other and had another silent conversation. Saying things that, for some reason, we can’t bring ourselves to verbalise.

 _You’re better than all of them, you’re the only one I trust to take care of me anyway_ , is what I read in Sherlock’s face.

 _Yeah I know, you berk. I’m the only one who does it right_ , is what I’m sure he reads in mine.

They started up the steps together. Once the reached the top, Sherlock leans on the wall beside the door so I can unlock it faster. We walk in and I immediately set him on the couch and go get my kit from the kitchen.

“Alright. Shirt. Off.” I focus on setting the kit on the table in front of him. _Keep it professional. You are not his friend, you are his doctor_.

“Sorry?” I look up immediately at the confusion in his voice, and find that his face matches. Eyebrows furrowed, head titled slightly, looking like an inquisitive little boy who’s just asked why the sky was blue and had gotten an answer that didn’t make a lick of sense.

“Your shirt, Sherlock. I need to check your ribs.” We looked at each for a moment, then he shed his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt. I looked down and set up the supplies. Once that was finished I set to work.

His ribs seemed intact, A little bruised in some places, but otherwise fine. He tended to the little cut on his forehead and cheekbone. _T_ _he car probably sustained more damage from hitting those things than Sherlock did_. John chuckled at the thought.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked. His voice was completely smooth. Not a trace of any uncertainty or awkwardness. This was by no means the first time that John had patched Sherlock up, but all previous incidents were confined to the face and hands. Anything else was handled by hospital staff. But now, just a few weeks after one the worst rows Sherlock’s ever had with EMTs, John was tasked with taking care of Sherlock’s first real injury in months. John had no idea how Sherlock could be so calm. Even though Sherlock has made it very clear that he was not interested in anyone, man or woman, and was fairly certain that Sherlock didn’t even feel things that way, he expected a little acknowledgement of the peculiar situation they were currently in. Friends and flatmates for almost four years, including the horrible two when Sherlock was “dead”, and this was the first time John had ever touched Sherlock while he was half naked.

Unfortunately that single thought sparked the memories of Sherlock’s little hiatus and his return just a year earlier. He always considered himself straight, and figured that his attraction to Sherlock was based purely on his addiction to adrenaline. His brain and his life was everything John needed to stop himself from committing suicide. He had every intention of sticking by Sherlock for as long as he could. It wasn’t until he was gone that he realised he that while he missed the chases and the danger, the things that constantly popped into his mind was Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table staring into his microscope. Sherlock playing the violin and four in the morning. Argueing with Sherlock about eating properly and never doing the shopping. The silly, stupid, domestic things that no one but he, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson knew about.

He missed the danger but he missed _Sherlock_  more. He _loved_  Sherlock. He was _i_ _n love_  with Sherlock.

Then when he returned, John had never wanted to hurt Sherlock until that day. He was so unbelievably cavalier about the whole situation. About making John grieve for two long years. Just walking back into his life, on the night he planned to propose to Mary, his girlfriend of six months, of all nights, and expecting it to go back to the way it was. He didn’t think he’d ever forgive him.

He forgave him within a week.

Then he married Mary and divorced within a year after finding out the baby wasn’t his. He moved back to 221B and continued on with his life, losing the memory of Mary in his adventures with Sherlock. It’s been a difficult view months back in the flat with Sherlock. His memories did him absolutely no justice in regards to the beautiful, crazy chaos that was his detective. _His_  detective. Sherlock never paid anyone as much attention as he paid to John and John no longer pretended to pay attention to anyone else. Sherlock belonged to John and John belonged to Sherlock. That was just the way it was and John was not going to do anything to change that. So he cleared his throat and turned his head to hide his blush.

“Nothing. Just thought about something. Stand up.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock’s voice was no longer curious, but concerned. A little afraid. John looked at him and stopped. He had only seen fear on Sherlock’s face one time, at Baskerville. And now here it was again, staring up and John as if begging him not make him do it. It only there for a second, before being placed with cold indifference, but John knew him well enough to still see it lingering underneath.

“I have to do your back now. Make sure everything is in its proper place.” John spoke slowly but firmly. If Sherlock knew John had seen his fear, he’d turn into an insufferable arsehole faster than John could blink.

“For god’s sake, I’m fine, John.” Sherlock’s following exasperated sigh could have been heard in Regent’s Park.

“You’ll say you’re fine up until you pass out from exhaustion or until you’re so thin and weak I have to force feed you.”

“What does any of that have to do with this situation?” Sherlock said. John did not feel up to playing this back and forth game with Sherlock. He stood up straighter and looked directly at Sherlock’s face. He hadn’t commanded anyone since his army days, but that didn’t mean he doesn’t remember how.

“Stand up, Sherlock. Do it now.” Sherlock didn’t move for a few seconds. Didn’t speak, didn’t blink. John’s not even sure is he still breathed.

Sherlock finally stood up, with a look of anguish in his eyes, and turned around.

John’s first reaction was shock and disgust. Shock at the amount of scars on his best friend’s back, disgust at the men who had done this. That quickly gave way to the quiet steady rage or a soldier who has just found his comrade tortured. Tears built in John’s eyes and his breathing grew ragged. His hands curled in fists so tight that even his short nails were able to draw blood from his palms. He tried to count, but there were too many. _How many times? How long?_ It took a minute for the red tint to ebb away from the sides of his vision, to realise he had been standing there for nearly five minutes without saying anything, and to notice that Sherlock was staying stock still. John needed names. He needed them now.

“Who?” John’s voice, to his own ears, sounded hard and cold. Sherlock tilted his head to peek at John’s expression. Whatever he saw there made him turn around fully, pull on his shirt, and button it up within seconds.

“Doesn’t matter, John.” Sherlock’s own voice was detached, his eyes staring at the wall behind John.

“Doesn’t mat- how can it not matter Sherlock! Ho- when did the- _Jesus Christ_  Sherlock!” John couldn’t form the words he needed to tell Sherlock exactly what he was going to do when he found the men who had done this. He wanted to punch a hole in the wall. He wanted to bury a bullet in Mycroft’s skull.

“They’re gone, John. They’re in prison. There’s nothing more to do.” He hated the calm he heard it Sherlock’s voice. _Machine_. The word flashed through his mind, but he bit his tongue to prevent it from slipping out. Never again, he swore to himself, never again would he call Sherlock a machine. The last time he did that, Sherlock killed himself. Suddenly John wanted to fall to his knees and cry. He wanted to crawl out of his skin, he wanted to jump from the top of Bart’s  _bloody_ hospital.

“This is my fault. You jumped to protect me. You were being bloody _tortured_  because you wanted to protect _me_. Why, Sherlock? _Why_  would you- you let yourself be _tortured_  like this? _Jesus Christ_ , Sherlock!” At some point he had started backing up. At some point he tripped and fell into his chair. At some point Sherlock had kneeled in front of him and taken John’s face in his hands.

“You did not do this to me, John. It is _not_ your fault. He was going to kill you. Moriarty was going to _shoot_ you, John. I didn’t have a choice, I had to keep you safe. I needed to make sure his network was destroyed, I needed to keep you safe.” There was the fear again. In his voice, his face his eyes. But this time it was John making him afraid. Sherlock had hurt enough, _suffered_  enough and he needed to make it stop.

He leaned over and kissed him. It was hard and desperate and tasted like salt from John’s tears. He needed to make the hurt go away, for both of them.

“I love you. I love you so much. I love you so _fucking_  much, Sherlock and I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.” John kissed Sherlock’s lips, his face, his eyes, his nose, his jaw. All over, everywhere he could kiss, he kissed saying nothing but _I love you_  over and over and over again. He was so focused on finally getting out everything he’d been holding in that he didn’t notice Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders. Didn’t notice Sherlock returning every kiss with as much passion and an _I love you_  of his own.

It turned from frantic and hard and desperate to slow and sweet and loving as they went back to each other’s lips. They were both panting by the end, looking into each other eyes and wondering why the _bloody hell_  this took so long.

“I love you.” John said, his voice a broken whisper in Sherlock’s ear, his hands curling into Sherlock’s hair and holding on as if afraid Sherlock would get up and run from him.

“I love you.” Sherlock’s voice was deep and steady as he said it, washing over John and causing a warm feeling to settle in his chest and spread through every part of his body.

  
They looked at each other and smiled. They kissed again, a deep, slow kiss that sent shivers down both their spines. Later, John would return to his room and get all his clothes to put them with Sherlock’s in their shared closet. But right now, perfectly in sync, as they always are, they started toward Sherlock’s room, in an unspoken agreement that they will no longer be needing two bedrooms.


End file.
